


Gifts of the Magi

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, F/M, Getting Together, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God save Gregory Lestrade from his pre-teenage daughter.  Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gifts of the Magi

**Author's Note:**

> The nineteenth installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from kim_i_8472, who requested a Gift of the Magi sort of thing for Molly and Lestrade. As seems to be a theme this year, I didn’t write that. Lestrade’s daughter had a different story to tell.

The problem with associating with a bloke like Sherlock Holmes is that everyone else looks like a supporting character in comparison. 

I mean, just _look_ at the bastard – tall, dark, mysterious, fantastic cheekbones, even better coat. Goes swishing around London with John Watson tagging after him like a bulldog pup and of course all the girls are mad for him. Hell, even my wife – _ex_ -wife – she thought he was rather dishy, saw his picture a few times and made all sorts of innuendo-like remarks. Tried to meet him once or twice. ‘Course, if she had, that whole disaster might have happened a lot earlier than it did, but that’s water under the bridge now. 

Jess tells me the wedding was a bit on the tacky side, but the pictures turned out nice enough. Jess looks near grown-up in them; I’ve got one in my office. Looks like a studio shot, her smiling with the sunset and palm trees in the background. 

That’s what started it all, you know. Jess’s picture, not that I’d tell her. Go to her head, for more reasons than one. 

* 

My line of work, you get around. I don’t think there’s anyone who knows his part of the city better than a cop on the beat, and I ran through ‘em all when I was one. Ran through half a dozen pairs of shoes in a year, too – hell on the budget when you’re young and just starting out, but worth it in the long run because I know the city like the back of my hand. Better’n Sherlock Holmes even, some days. 

The downside is that something out of whack with the way you know the city – well, it’ll stand out. I suppose that’s a good thing, some days, when you need a clue to spur you on, but when everything’s all calm-like, it’ll throw you. So when I got back from lunch and found Molly Hooper waiting in my office…well, I was thrown, I admit it. 

Molly jumps up like she didn’t expect anyone to come in. 

“I didn’t misplace it,” says Molly, and I can tell she’s nervous. 

“Okay,” I say, and cross the room to my desk. 

“I put it right on the top of my case and I had the case with me all night and when I looked this morning, it was gone.” 

“All right.” The coffee was lukewarm already, and I’d accidentally over sweetened it. 

“It’s only Mr Holmes—“ And Molly bites her lip, and I look up at her for the first time really since I came in, and I could swear she’s about to cry. 

“Sherlock?” 

“No, the other one.” 

I groan. I’ve had the pleasure. It was mostly his. 

“What are we talking about anyway?” 

“Irene Adler,” whispers Molly. 

Well, that explains a lot. “I don’t get the suicides,” I say, and shuffle the papers on my desk for a lack of anything else to do. “If you say Mycroft had an interest, I suspect he had something to do with its disappearance. Don’t worry about it.” 

“But—“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” I repeat firmly. 

Molly nods, and wrings her hands. She’s still looking around the office, as if looking for reassurance that I can’t give her. 

“Is that your girlfriend?” she blurts out suddenly, and I look up, startled. She’s staring at the photo of Jess. 

“She’s _twelve_ ,” I say, because I’m not entirely sure what else to say, and Molly turns bright red. 

“Oh. _Oh_.” She jumps up to her feet. “I—” 

“I’m not a cradle-robber!” 

“No, of course not, I didn’t mean – only she’s very pretty, and I know your wife left you, so I thought –” 

“She’s my _daughter_.” 

Molly’s eyes widen. “Daughter.” 

I’ve been grey for the better part of five years; I wonder what Molly thinks my hair color really is. 

“You really think I could get a girl that young?” I ask. “I’m an old man.” 

“No, you’re not,” blurts out Molly, and turns even redder. “I mean…I…I’ll just go,” gulps Molly, and does, but not without nearly tripping over the chair in her hurry, dragging it halfway out the door before she manages to untangle herself and make her escape. 

I look at the photo of Jess. She does look a bit older than twelve, but that’s the makeup. Her mum’s idea, no doubt; I would never have let her out of the house wearing the stuff. Sixteen? Seventeen? 

Still. Molly Hooper thinking I could catch a young kid like that and hold their interest for any more than a ride to the shops? 

Molly Hooper thinking I could date someone half my age? Molly Hooper thinking I’m not an old man? 

Molly Hooper thinking of…me. At all, much less in the context of dating. It’s hard to wash the cocky grin off my face the rest of the day. 

* 

“You should start dating again,” says Jess over prawns and pasta the next week. 

“What makes you think I don’t?” I pile another couple of prawns on her plate. She still looks too thin to me. 

“Dad,” says Jess seriously, and she gets that look in her eye. “Even Mum says so.” 

I snort. The last time I took advice from my ex-wife I ended up donating to the school-sponsored football team, coached by none-other than her boyfriend, now husband. 

“Come on, Dad,” urges Jess. “You need something to cheer you up a bit. Plus you haven’t been laid in at least a year.” 

I nearly spit out my noodles. 

“What?! Where’d you learn that term?” 

“Dad,” says Jess seriously. “I’m _twelve_.” 

“Yeah, that’s my point!” 

“There’s got to be a pretty girl at work or something,” says Jess. “You could ask her out to the cinema. Or him. I’m a pretty open-minded person.” 

“Girl,” I said firmly. 

“There’s a girl at school, she has _three_ dads,” says Jess, almost wistfully, like having multiple parents of the same gender is somehow a mark of coolness for the twelve-year-old set. For all I know, it could be. 

“I’m not even dating anyone, don’t marry me off yet,” I say. 

“I could. Like an arranged marriage sort of thing.” Jess sits up in her chair. “You know, all those mail-order brides from Russia or Pakistan or something. And you’d be all hesitant and she’d be all shy, and then you’d fall in love and it’d be just like one of those Bollywood films where everyone ends up singing.” 

Christ save me from the romantic notions of preteenaged girls. 

“Look, if it keeps you from scouring the personals, I’ll ask someone out, all right?” 

“You _will_?” 

“On one condition: go to bed on time without me pestering you. For one week.” 

“Done,” says Jess instantly. Bloody hell, I should have gone for two weeks. “Is she pretty?” 

“Who?” 

“The _girl_ , Dad. Is she pretty?” 

I think of the way Molly blushed and ran over the chair in her hurry to get out of my office. “Yeah,” I say. “She is.” 

* 

“Me? I mean…me? Really? Why?” 

I can’t answer, because I really have no idea. 

Molly seems to realize what she’s said, though, and blushing furiously, tries again. “I mean, yes. That’d be…nice.” 

Oh, Christ. 

* 

The film is terrible. I realize this ten minutes in, and if it’d been just me, I might have left. 

But when I look over at Molly, she’s staring up at the screen, utterly fascinated. The light is shining on her face, and the flickering blue and green gives her a sort of otherworldly glow. The actors on the screen must say something funny, because suddenly she’s laughing, and the light in her eyes shines, and I spend the rest of the movie watching her, and don’t remember a thing. 

* 

“I had a good time,” says Molly after the movie. “It was a really funny film.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I liked the part where…um…they did that thing….” 

Molly hesitates just a little. “You hated it.” 

“No. Yes. A little. Just the first ten minutes. I stopped paying attention after that.” 

“Oh. You could have said. We didn’t have to stay.” 

“You liked it,” I say, and there’s the blush rising again. “Look, let me take you to dinner and you can tell me about it?” I don’t really care, I just don’t want her to leave yet. 

“Oh. I … I’m sorry, I can’t.” I think she actually regrets it, too. “I’ve got a guest staying. I should get back to him.” 

_Him_. Fucking bloody idiot me. 

“Oh. All right. Next time, maybe.” 

“Maybe,” says Molly. “Well. Thanks. It was fun.” 

“Yeah.” 

She turns to go. I shove my hands in my pockets, because I don’t want to be the stupid arse who reaches out to pull her in for a goodbye kiss, no matter how badly I want to do it. 

Instead, _she’s_ the brilliant woman who does it to _me_. 

It’s a great kiss. Actually, I’d call it dead brilliant, but…well. It’s Molly. I’d say more, but that’d be telling. 

* 

The phone rings when I’m halfway through reading the night report; a double ring, so an outside line. I haven’t been at work for more than ten minutes; the terrible department coffee’s still too hot to drink. 

“Did you kiss her?” 

“Jess?” 

“ _Well_?” 

“Aren’t you in school?” 

“I have five minutes until the first class. Talk fast, old man.” 

“Oi, watch your mouth, I can still ground you.” 

Jess lets out a squeal that reminds me she’s still closer to pigtails than court shoes. “That’s a yes! When do I get to meet her?” 

“Two weeks from never. Go learn how to be a productive member of society.” 

I hang up, but I’m laughing. Jess’s photo is grinning at me from the corner of my desk. I’m not sure how she looks more smug in the photo now than she did before the call, but I have to turn her around or I’ll never get any work done. 

* 

It’s been a while since I dated anyone seriously. I have no idea what the rules are. Kissing on the first date – well, that ship sailed, but the rest? Haven’t the faintest. Most of the blokes on the force are married or dating girls who don’t follow rules, or both, and so their answers aren’t much use. 

Our second date, we go to the zoo. Like I said, I’m out of practice. 

“Oh,” says Molly when we meet in front of the Reptile House. “I thought – never mind.” 

“No, what?” 

“That your daughter would be here. You know, the zoo?” 

Oh. “Guess it’s a bit immature.” 

“No, it’s fine. I like the zoo, and I haven’t been here since…” 

I smile, a bit ruefully. “Since you were a kid?” 

She grins at me. “All right, yeah.” 

It’s a nice date. There’s probably other ways to have a date in London when you’re pushing fifty. I don’t know them and don’t particularly care, because the weather is nice and the animals are good ways of sparking conversation – not that we need them – and I can tell Molly is having a good time. Being a cop, you get a good sense of people, and if they’re hiding anything, and anything Molly’s hiding has nothing to do with me. 

I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that much. 

“I’d like to meet her,” says Molly. There’s a group of teenagers somewhere ahead of us, howling and hollering and generally making disturbances of themselves. It’s probably what made her think of Jess, even though Jess has a few more years before she becomes truly terrible. I tell myself that at night sometimes. It’s not as reassuring as it sounds. 

“Jess? Really?” 

“Or…not. It’s fine.” She laughs, the insecure twitter that says she’s looking for a convenient rock to hide under. 

“She lives with her mum most of the time. I get her for a few days every couple of weeks. It’s inconsistent. Kind of hard to make something regular with my work schedule, but Linda – my ex – she’s pretty flexible, and Jess understands.” Linda’s flexible about a lot of things, including fidelity, but Molly was at that Christmas party. She knows. 

“Better not to waste the time on me, then,” says Molly, lightly, and it’s the first false note I’ve heard all day. 

I stop in my tracks, take her arm. “Hey. You wouldn’t be a waste of time,” I say, and she catches her breath. 

“I…” 

I kiss her, just a soft press of lips to hers. Somewhere on the other side of the walkway, the flock of teenagers erupts into hoots and cat-calls and whistles, clearly enjoying the show. 

“Hooligans,” I grumble, but Molly giggles and wraps her fingers in my lapels. “You two better not gang up on me.” 

“Oh, no,” she says, smiling. “We won’t.” 

* 

They do. It is exactly as awful as I feared. 

“Is Dad a good kisser?” 

There’s a pause. Why is there a pause? Does she really have to think about this answer? 

“Yes.” 

“Ewwwwwwww!” shrieks Jess, delighted. “Where’d he take you on your first date? Oh my god, Dad, you didn’t take her to the Criterion, that place is horrible, it’s falling apart and the floors are sticky.” 

“Give me a little credit.” 

I can’t hear the rest of the conversation over the noise in the kitchen as I make dinner. Just as well, they both look entirely too satisfied when I finally call them to the table, and I think I’m better off not knowing why. 

They wash the dishes; I catch up on the news. World’s going to pot, economy’s sunk, Americans are full of themselves and the French are worse. I go back to help dry, but they’re talking a mile a minute so I stop on the other side of the door. 

“…sleep with him?” says Jess. 

I freeze. 

“No.” Pause. “I mean, I don’t know.” Pause. “He hasn’t asked me.” Pause. “Are you old enough to know about this sort of stuff?” 

That’s what I want to know. Well, that and a few other things. 

“You could ask him. Some guys like that.” 

Christ. Oh _Christ_. Those are not the words my 12-year-old daughter should know. This entire conversation is one she shouldn’t even _understand_. Wasn’t she playing with My Little Ponies ten minutes ago? For Chrissake, how does she even know there are multiple definitions of the term “to sleep”? 

“Does he?” asks Molly cautiously. 

Another pause. I’m dying. This is what dying feels like. 

“Nah. He’s traditional. Bet he hasn’t even bought condoms yet. Would you sleep with him, if he asked?” 

Christ fucking shite on a stick buggering arse hole _fuck_. 

(Back of the nightstand drawer. Two days ago.) 

I should put a stop to this conversation. 

Right after Molly answers. 

“I’m protected,” says Molly, and my stomach makes the acquaintance of my feet. Holy _fuckering_ bloody hell. “You shouldn’t leave it up to the man, it’s your responsibility too.” Pause. “I probably should not be having this conversation with you.” 

Nope. I should absolutely go right in there and stop them. Except Molly hasn’t answered Jess’s question yet. 

“Would you mind?” 

“It’s not about me.” 

God, I love my kid. 

“Yes,” says Molly. ‘I…I would. Yes.” 

Jess gets a pony. Jess gets front row seats to One Dimension or whatever they call themselves. Jess gets whatever her heart desires, especially if she goes to bed early tonight. 

“But only after we’re joined in holy matrimony,” says Molly, primly, and my heart nearly stops until I hear them both hooting with laughter. 

Sometimes, I hate females. They can put the dishes away on their own. I go to check that the condoms are where I left them. 

* 

An episode and a half of Doctor Who is all it takes. Jess stands up, stretches, and yawns widely. 

“Gosh, I’m beat,” she says cheerfully. “Well, I’m to bed. Goodnight, adults.” 

It’s barely half past eight. I love my daughter. 

“Remember the walls are thin,” she adds, and I consider cutting her pocket money. 

“Goodnight, Jess,” says Molly, and they kiss each other’s cheeks, a bit like sisters, and there’s an idea I really don’t want in my head. 

“Night, Dad,” says Jess. “Remember your manners.” 

I don’t know where she came from, I honestly don’t. Considering Linda…well. But I’m the one listed on her birth certificate, so I’ll take her, gladly, and to hell with the rest. “Goodnight, pumpkin.” 

She’s gone, and all the cozy, comfortable, family-like feeling is sucked out of the living room with her. Molly has been settled by my side, under my arm, and she goes back to that same position, but there’s a tenseness in her now, a bit like she’s not sure if it’s appropriate without the supervision of Jess to protect her innocence. We watch the end of the episode in utter silence, and I pay more attention to listening to Jess bang around the lavatory and then her room before silence reigns from the back of the flat. 

“Is she asleep?” asks Molly as the end credits roll. 

“Probably not. She keeps a torch in her room, she’s probably reading under the blankets.” 

“But she won’t come back out?” 

“Nope.” 

Molly exhales. “Good.” 

And she twists in my arms, and suddenly she’s kissing me, her cool fingers on my cheeks, and I slide down the sofa cushions so she’s over me, and it’s fantastic, it’s _molto benne_ , it’s the reversal of every kind of polarity in existence and I’m not even sure who tears what off first, but we wiggle giggling off the sofa onto the floor with a thump, and bang into half the furniture in the flat as we stumble into the bedroom, and Molly’s not one bit surprised that I’ve got condoms in the nightstand. 

The black lace pants under her jeans is a bit of a shock, but a good one. It’s almost a shame to take them off. But I do. 

* 

Jess smirks like the cat that ate the cream in the morning. When she waggles her eyebrows at me, I whack her gently with the morning newspaper, which doesn’t deter her grin in the least, and Molly, wrapped up in my robe, smiles over her tea. They both help me with the crossword. Not that I need it, but it’s good to humor the women in your life. They can make you right miserable otherwise.


End file.
